Life
by Gumnut
Summary: Life sometimes sucks even if you don't die.


Life

Life  
By Gumnut  
20 Jun 2005

What is it with life, huh? You do all the right things, help the right people, sacrifice parts of yourself for others. And what does life give you?

More hell.

More heartache.

More hurt.

Sometimes I wonder if any of it is worth it.

-o-o-o-

Michael Knight pulled the Trans Am into the parking lot with a screech, a curse and, moments after he had stopped, the slamming of a door that if it had been an ordinary car door, would have probably broken it of its hinges.

Fortunately it wasn't.

The car didn't complain.

Which was something not out of the ordinary.

But unfortunately, for this car, it was.

Michael regretted it the moment he did it. It wasn't Kitt's fault. Hell, if it was anyone's fault it was his. Not that he had really had any say in any of it either. But that required rational thinking. And that wasn't something high on his priority list at the moment.

He wanted to get drunk.

Michael wasn't much of a drinker, he'd been there and knew there were no answers at the bottom of a bottle, but tonight….he squeezed his eyes shut….tonight, he just wanted it to all simply go away.

He fumbled with the keys to the room, dropping them twice and swearing because of it, but eventually he shoved the door open before walking through it and giving it the same treatment he had given the car door. This door, unfortunately, was not protected by high tech equipment and it promptly broke, swinging open again and letting the cold night air in to follow him.

More swearing followed, a boot hit plywood, and the door was suddenly jammed shut, a chair shoved under the handle.

He wanted to keep the world out.

He had the required paper bag wrapped bottle, and without any thought of food, despite the fact he hadn't eaten all day, he rummaged in the cupboard, found a glass and filled it with amber liquid. After all Michael Knight was a gentleman, he never drank from the bottle.

Michael Knight. Even the name mocked him. Molten fire cascaded down his throat and he found himself coughing.

Another swig. He stared at the drink as it poured into the tumbler. Light refracted, golden, bouncing off in all directions. It would be somewhat pretty if it wasn't poison.

But then all there was left was to down this one and pour another.

-o-o-o-

I didn't want it to happen. I tried to prevent it. All I wanted to do was prevent it.

But I couldn't.

I failed.

All this wizbang gadgetry, all this training, all of…everything…all for nought.

Waste.

I curse the day I was born.

-o-o-o-

He didn't know what time it was, his vision had gotten just that little bit blurry and his voice, as he mumbled into the comlink, just that little bit slurred.

He was drunk.

Kitt's voice was worried. He could hear it.

But at least he was speaking to him.

"Michael, please, this self destructive behaviour won't solve anything."

"Self constructive be-haviour, d-didn't do any good ei-either!" He would have stood up in anger, but his prior attempt sort of tipped him sideways and the world tilted in a rather unpleasant way.

"Michael-"

"Kittch, shuddup."

"No."

"What!"

"No, Michael, I'm worried about you and I think I should take you home."

"Home? I d-don't have a home." Liar. He blinked at the clock on the wall again. "What the hell is the time?"

"1.44am. Please, Michael."

"What?"

"Michael, put down the bottle and come outside."

"No."

"Michael-"

"I shaid, no!"

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Shuddup, Kitt!"

"No."

"Listen, I give the orders around here and if you d-don't do as you are told, I'm gonna go out there and-and knock those fancy hub-b-caps o' yours across the street!"

"I'd like to see you try."

"Why you-!"

This time he did make it to his feet, and wow, fancy that, he even made it to the door. But the door wouldn't open. "Kittch, open the d-damn door!"

"You might want to move the chair, Michael."

Chair? He moved it, but somehow it broke. The door opened, though, and there sat his partner. His smart ass, know-it-all-yet-know-nothing partner. "You make me sick, Kitt." Was the world wobbling or was it just him?

"I would think it was the alcohol in your system rather than anything I might have possibly done, Michael."

Alcohol? He suddenly realised his hands were empty of one important and vital ingredient in this little comedy routine.

"Gotta get my drink. Back in a minute."

He was quite surprised that he made it across the room and back again without falling over. Of course, he tripped on the broken chair, but it a was a damn piece of shit anyway, so when he picked it up in anger and threw it through the motel room window, it wasn't much of a loss. And by the time he made it back out to the car he actually remembered what he had been angry about.

"Kittch, I'm angry with you."

"No, you're not, Michael."

"Yes, I am! If I say I'm angry, I'm angry. I can be angry with who the hell I damn please to be a-angry with!'

"You're angry at life, Michael."

A retort froze in his throat. No, he wasn't angry at life….he was angry at death! For taking again. Taking, taking, taking….and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't prevent it.

It just kept taking.

The glass tumbler smashed into a million glittering pieces as it came into a sudden and abrupt encounter with Kitt's hood.

-o-o-o-

Of course he gave as he always did, pushing his own limits as much as I pushed mine. I couldn't ask for more in a partner than him.

And he won't forgive himself anymore than I can myself.

We should have been able to stop him.

We should have been there.

But we weren't.

And now we have to pay for the consequences.

Life sucks.

-o-o-o-

Something snapped and Michael followed the glass. He found himself sprawled across Kitt's hood, tears running down his face.

It was all so unfair. He tried his best, he really had, and it simply hadn't been enough. He hadn't been able to make a difference. He hadn't been good enough.

He just hadn't…anything.

All those children.

His body was protesting, tired, complaining about the hard surface, the gravel beneath his knees, and the glass beneath his cheek.

A little blood ran with his tears.

Someone was calling his name.

"Michael, please, the police have been called. We have to leave." Sirens.

Police? Police were useless. They never helped and half of them were crooked assholes preying on innocents. "I don't care."

He could rot in jail forever, he deserved it.

"But I do. Michael, get in the car." The door he had slammed earlier opened in invitation.

"Kitt." He was tired. "I-" It just wasn't fair! "No more. Please. No more."

"Michael, you are drunk, you are upset. Today was…bad. But I still have you, and you still have me. We have each other. You've always said that is our strength." A pause. "Michael, I need you."

Strength? His fingers tracked the flickering scanner as the sirens drew nearer. He didn't know if he had the strength anymore.

But the echo of his own call to Kitt…somehow he found himself staggering to that door.

And then he was curled up in his place in life, the door shutting him in as the dash lights doubled and trebled in his sight The engine roared and they were moving…blue flickering lights bouncing off the rearview mirrors.

"Kitt?'

"Michael, you need sleep, I suggest you take some." The windows blackened as the car accelerated.

"P-police in pursuit."

"Don't worry, I have it all under control. You rest." The car swerved slightly, but through the dark windows, Michael could see nothing. "Rest, Michael. I've got you."

Rest.

Tears were drying on his face, but they were insufficient for what he was feeling. His voice was weary, whispering. "Why?"

Kitt didn't answer.

Because he didn't have one.

-o-o-o-

I sometimes think that perhaps things should have been different. That I should be different, that perhaps if we were different then perhaps we could make more of a difference.

But the truth is that we are what we are. Every blood cell, every electronic circuit, every faulty decision. We are what we are and all we can do is our best.

Even if it isn't good enough.

And each time we fail to make a difference I have to watch him lose just that little bit more of himself. All I can do is sit here watching him sleep the sleep of the exhausted, curled up in the seat he calls home.

And I can't do a damned thing.

One day life will ask one sacrifice too many and I'll find that seat empty.

And on that day, it will be me doing the crying.

-o-o-o-.


End file.
